dreadcrumbs

5 Things You Shouldn't Say To A Woman Who Is Clearly Pregnant

1. "You're disgusting."
2. "Do you have someone to video the birth already?"
3. "I can tell already that little nipper won't be born dead."
4. "Organs or meat?"
5. "Wow. Hard pregnancy, huh?"

Ranty McGrumbler

I am clearly a freak.
Those of you who have read this blog for any length of time surely have no doubt of that, but if you have read this blog for any length of time, you are probably a freak too.
In any case, I am usually reminded of my non-standard social, mental and cultural configuration when either
A) One of my favorite tv shows/radio stations/comic books/magazines are cancelled
or
B) Some "official" organization hands out awards
Both have happened frequently lately, but let's talk about books just now.
My wife's book, "Princess Academy" won a Newbery Honor two years ago, which actually surprised me, since it was a book I liked, and things I like rarely get awards. But "Princess" was actually my least favorite of my wife's books (which is no slight, since I still like it much better than any of that Nietszche guy's books).
I wrote off the incongruity by telling myself that, well, maybe the Newbery committee had just been unaware of "The Goose Girl," and its spectacular follow-up "Enna Burning." "Enna" was, at the time, my favorite book of hers.
So another book comes out, but as a sequel, I can, just barely, give the awards committees the benefit of the doubt for not, again, giving it the degree of recognition it deserves.
But then she writes "Book of a Thousand Days," a stand-alone fantasy tale better than any I have read. Claim if you like that I can't be unbiased, as I am the husband of the author, but don't do it in my presence, as I will consider it a personal insult and will surely head-butt you.
Thus, coming from such a point of view, it would seem that this book would be a shoo-in for any number of awards.
But no. The American Library Association announced their grundle of awards and recognitions today with no "Book" among them. My wife got an honor already, so sure, maybe you want to spread to love around, but one of the gazillion recognitions is a 50 book list of "Best Books for Young Adults." The absence there is the one that rankles. Couldn't spare a spot for the best book of the year, ARTARDS!?
I know, I know, complaining about this sort of thing is silly, seems like whining, and could ultimately do more harm than good. But still, one can only tolerate the absolute idiocy of Man for so long before bringing out the bat.
And yes, I have to acknowledge that I haven't read everything that got recognized by the ALA today. Maybe some of them are actually good. Phenomenally, incomprehensibly good. Burn-all-your-posessions-and-devote-your-life-to-it good.
But all of them? Doubtful.
All I know is that my reader-sense is tingling, and it seems a miscarriage of justice is afoot. I may very well have to wreak vengeance upon those that wronged my family, Frank Castle style.
It could be, though, that people are just stupid.
And since I tend to spare the mentally handicapped from my wrath, that might actually be nice.
Because, you know, vendettas can be very time consuming.
I have video games to play, after all.

Five reasons a little red sweater is a bad gift

1. Wearing it in public is awkward and uncomfortable
2. It begins to stink fairly quickly
3. It leaves a wet spot wherever it settles
4. It will, at some point, require food (and possibly diapers)
5. People ask you what it's name is, and then judge you when you tell them you just call it "The Red Sweater"

"An Abominable Holiday"

I wolf down the last bit of meat just as my wife comes back to camp with armful of firewood.
"What was that?" she asks, dropping the wood in the clearing.
"Nfm," I mumble, suddenly quite interested in a pattern of roots at the base of the tree I'm leaning against.
"What?" she calls, now looking very carefully my way.
I swallow, a bit earlier than I normally would have, and it cramps my throat.
"Ng..nothing," I say, and cough.
"Nothing?" she asks, still looking at me, and I think she's figured it out.
I look up and smile, trying my best to look as charming as possible. "Nope," I say.
She looks back to the wood, and starts to arrange it tipi-style for the campfire.
"So you're hungry?" she asks. "It's been a while since breakfast."
"Mmm...yeah," I lie. "I could eat." Shuffling toward her, I reach out to help arrange the wood, but realize my hands are still streaked with blood and quickly draw back.
"Any people come by?" she asks.
"No," I say. "No people."
"You're not a very good liar, you know." she says.
"What?" I say, pushing the flabbergast a little too hard.
She sits up, and her eyes drift to the tree where I'd taken my meal.
"There's still a bloody parka over there, doofus," she says.
"Uh..." I say, not looking. Her eyes come back to mine.
"And your beard is covered in gore," she says.
I wipe at my face quickly.
"Your hands, too," she says, sighing.
"Sorry," I say, and try to look it.
"Just go and bury your food's clothes, Jerry," she says icily, jabbing a finger at the parka. "Right. Now."
I hustle over to the tree, and en route stumble over my kill's head, sending it flying into the woods.
"What was that?" my wife hisses.
"The head," I hiss back.
Her eyes widen in a kind of dangerous disappointment.
"I don't like the heads!" I say, and it comes out sounding a lot more like a whine than I intended.
She opens her mouth, but then we both smell it, and turn to look in the direction of the smell simultaneously. People, close by.
"Todd!" comes the call, and then another voice, closer. "Todd? You out here?"
My wife gives me a look, and I know for sure I'll be sleeping outside the cave and in a snow drift for a week when we get back home.
There is a shout and scream from the direction the head got kicked, and then someone is screaming "Todd's head! Good Lord! I found Todd's head!" and running right for us.
"Honestly, Gerald," my wife says, baring her hunting teeth. "I can't take you anywhere."

And with strange aeons...

In solidarity with my brothers and sisters of the WGA (spirit brothers and sisters, as I've heard you have to have something you've written actually produced to be a member), I've been on strike. Which is to say, not writing. Holding out until The Internet agrees to give me more money. So far no progress in our negotiations. Big Internet isn't even talking. I shout and shout into my ethernet cable, but no response. I've even tried dialing INT-RNET on the phone, but somebody named Doug answered and claimed he had no idea what I was talking about.
I have, however, managed to categorize all the stories in the blog. Or, at least, categorize all the posts that are stories as stories. You can get a long list of all the microstories I've posted since the ancient days of 2005 by clicking on the handy "Microstories" link under the "Categories" heading over there on the right.
Under the list of comments.
No, I swear it's there. Keep looking.

I'm Not Dead

Only sleeping.